


Lost and Found

by witchmaidensworld



Category: RWBY
Genre: AU, F/M, Roman Torchwick Lives, but not until the very end, i mean its sorta au, i'm still in denial of his death, neopolitan doesn't team up with cinder, trying a new writing style here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchmaidensworld/pseuds/witchmaidensworld
Summary: He’s learned one hard lesson time after time in his life; he refuses to quit. He won’t back down, he won’t take defeat that easily.
Relationships: Neopolitan/Roman Torchwick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Lost and Found

The square was empty except for the massive Grimm decaying in the center. Bits of its flesh and feathers lay scattered around the stone plaza, even more disintegrating into the air. He wanted to laugh at it. Big stupid Grimm.

He needed a smoke. 

Dragging himself away from the square and the beast it contained took too long. One step, limp. Step, limp. Gods, every breath hurt. 

He found an abandoned spear on the edge of the square, mangled body a few feet away. It was heavy and too tall, but at least it was taking the bulk of his weight. Blessings sure came in funny packages.

The city was even worse, remains of school and arena raising giant plumes of black into the night sky. Grimm were still circling above, screaming at each other. He wondered how much time had really passed. Long enough, only the sounds of scuffling beasts meeting his ears. 

Ear. He lifted one hand to touch the side of his head, fingers coming away red. He laughed, the sound hollow. 

The spear helped, adding a new rhythm to his broken swagger. He avoided the clusters of huntsmen scattered around. They were too busy fighting beasts to notice him, but he knew it would only take a single glance to confirm his identity. Medical help was needed, but not at the cost of his freedom. 

A breeze rustled scattered newspapers further up the empty street and he shivered. Gods, he missed his hat. 

The bar came as a welcome sanctuary. Lights were still on despite the shattered front windows. A few of the bottles behind the counter had taken some damage, contents still dripping onto the tiled floor. He grimaced, dragging a stool behind the bar and carefully sitting down. At least here he had full view of the street.

A box of cigars was tucked beneath the counter next to rows of undamaged glassware, whisky and bourbon behind him. He lit one of the cigars and breathed in deeply, as deep as he could despite the tightness in his chest. He filled a glass nearly to the rim with bourbon and drank it in two gulps. The glass shook in his blood-stained grip. He eyed the spear leaning at the ready on the counter.  
He had time, at least a little. He poured another glassful of the bourbon.

Getting out of the city was easy. So many people had fled, leaving their personal belongings behind without a thought. He swung the spear at the front window of an apartment building, climbing through while being careful to avoid the edges of broken glass. He swapped his tattered coat, tailored fit, for a heavier jacket in dull brown. The pockets held keys, but nothing of real use. Looking through the kitchen, he only pocketed a couple of apples, and a slim envelope of cash. 

He was thankful he remembered how to properly rig a car. The engine came to life smoothly. At least in a vehicle he wasn’t as likely to be stopped and questioned. 

Three towns over he finally stopped to get medical help. The small clinic was near to bursting, but the nurse took one look at him before he was even through the door and dropped the paperwork she was trying to file. He walked out of there still feeling battered, but at least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. 

He still misses his cane.

He’s trying not to think about her, but now that the more immediate danger has passed-- his leg still hurts like hell, and the bandage over where his ear once was itches-- his thoughts turn. He knows her. She’s smart, smarter than he is, though he won't admit it out loud. She survived the battle, he knows she did.

He has to believe she’s alive out there. And maybe she’s looking for him too. 

He goes to Mistral, because of course he would. There are lots of places to go, he could pick anywhere. But he wants to disappear, and what better place to do that than in the kingdom with one of the biggest populations. Overshadowed by Atlas with its rapidly closing borders, he knows he can go unnoticed. He guns the engine.

He makes the trip in just over a week, ditching the car to walk when it runs out of fuel completely. At the border, it’s easy to slip in with a large group to get past security, the gate so choked with refugees it would take a year to even look at all their travel passes. 

He smiles as soon as he’s through, taking a brimmed hat off a man’s head and moving away before he’s noticed. 

The second bar isn’t deserted, and this time he doesn’t have to worry about his back being to the door. No one here recognizes him, not in a stolen hat or ill-fitting coat, or the spear on his back that gives him a bubble of space from everyone else. They probably think he’s some huntsman. He laughs and the bartender fills his glass again. 

She’s in Mistral. Somehow he knows she is. For just this once he’s willing to believe in fate and destiny, maybe even a red thread tying their souls together. He can picture her perfectly seated next time, one leg crossed over the other. She rolls her eyes at him, and moves one hand to steal the hat off his head, the cigar from his lips. 

He blinks and the seat beside him is empty. 

The third punch sends him to the ground, gasping. Mistral has gotten tougher, he thinks while staring up at the blurred figures above him. Rough hands dig through the pockets, making off with the cash, and a pocket knife and pay card he had taken from an unsuspecting mark earlier that day. They leave him there, laying on the dirty pavement in an alley. It takes him too long to get his breathing to return to normal; it’ll be even longer before his body stops throbbing. He’s fairly certain those goons intended to hit already present wounds.

He really is getting too old for all of this.

He drags himself up with the help of the rain-slick roughened brick of the building. He adds scraped palms and busted knuckles to his list of injuries to patch up later. Later, maybe when he finds a hotel or something. With no cash now.

He hears the footstep, a scrape of a shoe against the pavement, and whirls with fists raised. He knows he won’t win. He’s unarmed, injured, and lost, dammit. But he’s learned one hard lesson time after time in his life; he refuses to quit. He won’t back down, he won’t take defeat that easily. 

He never has. 

The touch is unexpected. A diversion; the figure at the end of the alleyway blocking escape disappears as quickly as it appears. The hand on his cheek, rough with stubble, is real. Very real. The woman it’s attached to is even more real. 

The blows from his assailants had kept him from breathing. The sight of her, real and in front of him and touching him, takes his breath away.

She’s in his arms in an instant, and though he feels every rib and sore muscles complaining at the sudden pressure, he’s not daring to let her go. He can’t let her go, never again. She’s changed, he realizes when they finally pull apart enough to look at each other. There’s a jaded look in her eyes, hiding her shattered heart behind it. 

And she’s wearing his hat.

He laughs breathlessly when she pulls it off to place it in his hands, fingers gently brushing against his. Worry flickers in her eyes, he just shakes his head.

He feels more like himself with the hat back on his head, her arm tucked in his. He smiles down at her, and the tightness in his chest relaxes. She smiles back up at him. 

“Let’s go kill a Cinder bitch, shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Different writing style I wanted to try out here. I'm still sleep deprived, and of course this is when I seem to write the best. Idk, that's just what I've been told, haha. Sorry for the melancholy feel of this piece. 
> 
> I'm still in denial over Roman Torchwick's death. They spent so much time building him up to be an amazing villain, and he was gone in like two seconds. Maybe he'll make a reappearance, but... Sigh. 
> 
> Also, this kind of derails at the end into AU because I know Neo teams up with Cinder. But she was definitely angry and had every right to attack Cinder, because Cinder really did kill Roman. She knows where the blame lies. Roman, I feel, would be just as angry. 
> 
> Writing without dialogue was a challenge, haha. I really hope I conveyed everything as well as I could. Besides the last line, there's no dialogue haha. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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